


A Rogue by Any Other Name

by cosmotronic



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Non-Explicit Sex, Prostitution, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8011441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke finds a more exciting way to pay off her debts than running with smugglers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rogue by Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Not as dark as the tags suggest though Hawke is sleazy and Athenril is a sort-of pimp and the ladies of Hightown are occasionally dubious in their consent. Nothing explicit or rape-y but you have been **warned**.
> 
> If you're okay with that, please read and enjoy. Comments and feedback are appreciated.

Athenril will miss Hawke when she's gone. When she pays off her debts or, more likely, gets herself killed during one of her escapades. Rumour has it Hawke has signed onto an expedition to the Deep Roads; that can't end well.

She wasted Hawke for the first few months of her servitude. She sent her on smuggling errands, scouting tunnels or marking cargo for pick up. She sent her to carry out petty thefts, to take coins and baubles and other shiny things from those that owed her. She sent her to deal with gang clashes or engage in minor turf wars that were clearly well within her fighting ability. She hadn't really known what to do with the wild, likeable rogue so desperate to clear the red from her ledger.

Until one of her contacts had messed up a job. Hawke had been sent to _persuade_ a group of dithering textile merchants into paying their dues. All Hightown new money, all convinced they could do business in Kirkwall without paying the proper import fees. Hawke was meant to scare them just a little, put on the unhinged killer performance for them, maybe rough up a couple of the mouthy ones. She'd carried out similar jobs for Athenril before. Hawke was deadly with a blade and lightning quick; her reflexes alone had made one ship's captain wet himself in fear as a knife quivered in the door frame inches from his fat, jowly face.

The merchant job was easier; Hawke didn't have to sneak on board a ship at anchor for a start. Athenril had been there in the shadows, observing though a window open to the hot summer air. One of the merchants had been remarkably insulting towards her elven heritage so she had thought to enjoy watching him squirm tonight, wriggle like a worm under Hawke's twin daggers. But fate decreed that wasn't going to happen.  The contact’s crappy intel had meant Hawke burst in not on the scheming merchants but an innocent gathering of their wives. A sewing circle instead of a guild meeting. If she hadn't been so furious, Athenril would have laughed.

Hawke had barely faltered as she took in the assorted startled women, their lemon cakes and half-done tapestries. She kicked the door shut behind her to pre-empt any attempt to summon a guardsman, then stalked closer to the group. She casually twirled a dagger to reinforce her command of the situation but rather than issue threats she dropped a breezy comment in the middle of the room. She could _murder_ one of those lemon cakes. It hung there but somehow diffused the worst of the initial tension and allowed Hawke to proceed on, flattering the older women and flirting outrageously with the younger ones in that way she had. Always striking the balance between force and wit that was so dangerously alluring, that was so... so... _Hawke_.

Amusing as it all was, Hawke had the situation well in hand and Athenril had been about to leave, itching to slice a certain snitch a new hole for his mistake. Until she saw how one of the youngest wives had blushed at a lascivious comment, how her wide eyes had unconsciously roved over Hawke’s lanky frame, her razor grin and sparkling eyes. Most of the ladies were still delicate wrecks at the sight of a wicked ruffian crashing their gossip party, armed and uninvited. But incredibly, this sweet thing - this bland waif - was visibly turned on as well as terrified by the mysterious stranger. Athenril had been around long enough to recognise the quickened breaths, the flush, the uncomfortable fidgeting. This one was the most affected, but at least two others were left stunned and gazing wistfully over their needlework as Hawke spoke her final brazen remarks, made her charming apologies and disappeared into the night.

This was a development. Hawke was charismatic and attractive, in a rough sort of way, and certainly self-assured. Tall and fit with wonderful hair, too. She could turn heads but Athenril had never thought to use her for any purpose other than as a light-fingered accomplice or a useful bit of muscle. This… this had potential.

So Hawke becomes another weapon in Athenril's armoury and another page in her business portfolio. Unsure at first, but also darkly excited. Hawke's barely twenty but Athenril knows the extent of her conquests, charming and cajoling her way into open arms and warm beds. Shop girls, tavern wenches, all those farmer's daughters back in Lothering. The chance to sample something a little higher up the food chain _and_ turn a tidy profit... well, Hawke has to see it's an enticing prospect. She’s an incorrigible flirt and she’s young and she’s restless and she soon throws herself into the task with enthusiasm.

There are carefully chosen marks, those for whom rumour or evidence suggest they might appreciate a particular form of persuasion. Sweet talk or strong words, a smile or a sword, sex. Sometimes they say no but they always mean yes. After a visit from Hawke they willingly hand over cargo manifests, trade routes, secrets, valuables, whatever Athenril wants. It works unbelievably well and the targets are usually mercifully discreet, too. Whether too smitten to speak or shame seals their lips they rarely reveal the truth.

It's not just merchant’s wives, either. Hightown ladies, daughters too. All are fair game as Hawke casts her nets wider and higher. There’s not always a goal in mind; often the rakish rogue just likes to see what she can get away with, flirting or rutting her way to a score. When Hawke returns one night with a particularly smug swagger to her step and the deed to a wallowing cargo vessel in her hand, Athenril nearly jumps her right then.

It's not without danger. Sometimes Hawke misjudges affections or liaisons are interrupted, meaning she must beat a hasty retreat, melt into shadows or flee from sentries. She is captured once by a lord's personal guards in a ridiculous show of force, practically a small army; the man must be compensating for something. Athenril is debating whether to pay off the cell watchman, stage a prison break or just leave her to rot when Hawke saunters up, smirking and stinking of weapon oil and sweat and the subtle scent of a guardswoman's submission.

Once, memorably, Hawke comes away with a gold plated figurine of Andraste. Athenril doesn't know exactly what has gone on inside the Chantry walls; those buildings of stone and suffering are fit only for human self-loathing and she steers well clear. Still, she doesn’t doubt there is at least one fair sister weeping or pining within, having thrown away her vows on Hawke’s fire. Hawke is a little quieter that night, her cares a little weightier. Athenril bites her lip as she watches her fence the statue for far less than it is worth, deposit most of the coins into a poorbox and return to happily avoiding organised religion.

It is no enduring loss. As time goes on, some will simply pay Hawke for the privilege and from all Athenril has seen and heard, it _is_ a privilege. It is most often bored Hightown noblewomen who do this, their husbands absent or neglectful. Craving the excitement of a stranger's touch, they pour coin and dignity into Athenril’s coffers. In return Hawke will ravish them, treat them like a princess or a whore, whatever sparks their desire.

There are scenarios sometimes. The interrupted burglary is a common request. Hawke wears her rough leather armour and waits. Waits for them to return from a trip to the markets, or from taking tea and making small talk with the other ladies. She waits and then she pounces. Sometimes she will tie them up, sometimes she just bolts the door and tosses them to the floor. She holds them down, stops them from running or screaming for help. Ruins them for their weak, pathetic men.

Or there is the romantic escort. Hawke loves to wander the rich parts of town, dressed up and dashing, highborn lady hanging on her arm. It’s especially fulfilling when they just happen to walk hand-in-hand past _his Lordship_ while he is entertaining fellow nobles or engaging with dignitaries. It's best when Hawke initiates a plundering kiss or steamy embrace amidst the cream of society, at a party or other such function, emasculating husbands and ruining familial reputations in one passionate blow. Athenril is surprised there haven’t been more invitations to duel.

There are more than a few repeat clients. Hawke must be something special; how an uncultured, unfinished and undisciplined Ferelden villager like her can be so compelling to the prim and proper of upper Kirkwall strains credulity. Athenril starts to watch her encounters more often, intrigued. Slipping unnoticed through shadows and once, embarrassingly, coming in her breeches when the sight of Hawke taking the magistrate’s mistress _on his own desk_ becomes too much to keep her hand away.

Athenril has experienced it first-hand, too. She must test the quality of the merchandise after all, guarantee the service provided. She has been laid out naked beneath that tall form, panting and writhing under that glorious vision as Hawke fucks her violently in full armour, muscled arm driving until she clamps down and spills. It’s a relinquishing of power Athenril rarely allows but so often craves.

There really _is_ something special about Hawke. She’s everything to everyone. They’ll all miss her when she’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> A little story idea I've been poking around with for ages. Started as a drabble, got away from me.


End file.
